or Mags Models and Moi.
So I just returned from getting new tyres put on my car. A “blokey” (Aussie term for man) atmosphere without a female in sight, at least there was a coffee machine.
I sat down in front of the coffee table in the ‘waiting room’ with the not so abundant array of magazines ahead of me. The choice admittedly was rather dismal. Yes, ‘yee har’ there were mags for the boys on tyres, and 4 wheel drives and the like about 5 and 2 mags for the women folk.
Vogue and another glossy high fashion one with Jennifer Anniston on the cover (I remember her) but not the magazine title. I sat with my skirt and T shirt on sipping my machine made latte (taking note this is the 1st warm day we have had since Winter has ceased) so my bare white skin was that of a beacon heralding the arrival of Spring.
Casting my eyes on the pages and flicking through, with stunning photographs (all touched up by the way) of the glamourous models and the expensive haute couture clothing that adorned their silken bronzed bodies. I gazed in awe at how pretty the clothes were and indeed how perfectly unmarked (almost store mannequin) were the models that wore them.
Sadly I looked downwards to my arm holding said magazine and looked at my pale, slightly freckled, corrugated arm that was holding it up. Rearranging my skin so that the corrugation wasn’t on full view (even to myself any longer) I continued glancing through the pages.
The meaning of this post? I have lived in this body for 57 years and as much as it sometimes makes me go ‘ugh’ I have no choice but continue living in it. The models in the mags are all young, stunning, air brushed and haven’t had kids.
I am older, bore 2 children and definitely not air-brushed and for gods sake don’t get me started on my legs! I just won’t look down anymore.